R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“It’s not a sermon,” said Frost, ‘it’s the gypsy’s warning.” Webster was well down the wrong road before Frost added, “Sorry, did I say left? I meant right…”

Demon General Hospital had originally been a workhouse and was built, like the public toilets, in the reign of Queen Victoria, when things were meant to last. So it was as strong and solid as a prison, but not as pretty and nowhere near as comfortable. Over the years it had sprouted additional wings and outbuildings and was now a sprawling melange of various styles of municipal architecture. It stood on the outskirts of Denton and was dominated by the huge, factory-type chimney poking from the boiler house where, according to Frost, the incinerator was fuelled by amputated arms and legs.

They waited for Max Dawson in the porter’s lodge, a small, partitioned cubbyhole just inside the main entrance. The night porter, a bright-eyed old man with a nicotine-stained walrus moustache, was pouring creosote-coloured liquid into three enamel mugs. Milk was added, then sugar was shovelled in from a tin marked Sterile Dressings. Frost always seemed to know where to get a free cup of tea at any hour of the day or night.

“Get that inside you, Mr. Frost,” said the porter, sliding a mug over.

“And you, young fellow.”

Webster smiled his thanks.

They sipped, blinked, and shuddered.

“What’s it like, Mr. Frost?” asked the porter.

“Delicious, Fred. Do we have to sign the poison register?”

The old boy cackled, showing teeth browner than his tea. “Your lot are keeping us busy tonight, Mr. Frost,” he said, rolling a hand-made cigarette from a pouch of coarse, dark tobacco. “First the old tramp in the morgue, then the poor kid who was raped, and last, that old man who was run over by a hit-and-run.”

“I hope we’re getting our usual discount for bulk,” said Frost, steeling himself for another swig. “Hello, you’ve got a customer.”

Someone was rapping on the frosted-glass panel over the counter. The porter slid it back to reveal a young woman in her early twenties, her bust in the high thirties, and her hair dark with a hint of auburn. She wore a light-blue raincoat over which was slung a white shoulder bag. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure when she saw the inspector.

“Hello, Mr. Frost.”

Frost was up and out of his seat. “Good Lord, it’s sexy Sue with the navy-blue knickers. What are you doing here, Sue? They don’t do pregnancy tests after midnight you know.”

She smiled, showing teeth as perfect as her figure. “Inspector Allen sent me. I’ve got to stay with the rape victim and try and get a statement. He said you’d have the details.”

Frost trotted out the details, adding that the girl hadn’t yet been identified but that a man who might be her father was on his way over. He caught sight of Webster staring at the girl in wide-eyed approval, his tongue almost hanging down to his stomach. It was the first time he had caught his assistant without a frown on his face. “Sorry, Sue, I should have introduced you. The bearded gent at my side is Detective Constable Webster.”

“I’ve seen you about the station,” she told him, warming him with a loin-tingling smile. “I’m Sue… Detective Constable Susan Harvey.”

“Take Sue up to Casualty,” Frost told Webster. “Ward C3.”

And for the first time, Webster obeyed an order without a display of resentment.

Frost returned to his tea, sipping slowly as the porter puffed away at his evil-smelling homemade cigarette.

“We used to see a lot of you when your wife was here, Mr. Frost.”

“That’s right, Fred.”

“How is she? Did she get better?”

“No,” said Frost, ‘she didn’t get better.”

The main doors opened and footsteps rang out on the tiled passage. Frost went out to meet Max Dawson, who was shaking with rage. Beside him stood his wife, wearing a silver-fox fur. She was crying.

“Is it true?” hissed Dawson. “Is it true?” “That’s what we want you to confirm,” Frost told him. He drew Dawson to one side and said quietly, “It might be better if your wife stayed down here, sir.”

“No,” said Clare firmly. “She’s my daughter. I want to be with her.”

“How bad is she?” asked Dawson as they walked towards the lift.

“She’s taken a very nasty beating. I think her nose, jaw, and ribs are broken,” Frost answered.

Dawson sucked in air angrily. “When you find the swine who did it, let me have him,” he pleaded.

“I think there’d be quite a queue, sir,” said Frost, pausing to look around as a clatter of footsteps chased after them.

“Mr. Frost!” called the porter. “Telephone call for you. Ward C3 they say it’s urgent.”

An icy cold hand clutched at Frost’s heart and squeezed hard. Karen

Dawson was in ward C3. Had she died? Phase don’t let her be dead. The

Dawsons had followed him and were watching him intently. He took the phone, then turned his back so the parents couldn’t see his face. “Frost,” he said quietly.

It was Susan Harvey’s voice on the other end. “Inspector, I’m with the rape victim. Did you say Karen Dawson was only fifteen?”

“That’s right, Sue. Why?”

“Then this can’t possibly be her. It’s not a girl, it’s a woman

… she’s thirty at least.”

Thirty! Flaming hell, thought Frost. “Are you sure, Sue? I’ve got the parents with me.”

“There’s no doubt at all, Inspector.”

He handed the phone back to Fred, took a few deep breaths to compose himself, then slowly turned to face the Dawsons.

Max Dawson was pacing up and down, unable to keep still, anxious to be with his daughter. His wife, who had sat down on one of the wooden benches that lined the corridor, stood up anxiously as Frost approached, trying to read the message in his face.

He gave them both what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Mrs. Dawson, it’s all right…”

Dawson pushed himself forward. “All right? How can it be all right?

My daughter’s been beaten and raped, and you tell us it’s all right.”

Frost took a deep breath and plunged up to his armpits into icy water. “I’m afraid we’ve worried you unduly. The girl who has been raped isn’t your daughter.”

Clare caught her breath, then began to laugh hysterically. Her husband grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly. Still she laughed: He slapped her face… hard, the pistol-shot sound echoing on and on down the long corridor. She gasped, her hand touching the red mark on her face, then she shrivelled and burst into tears, dropping on to the bench.

Dawson stared into space for a while, then said, “Not my daughter …?”

“No, sir. It turns out she’s a much older woman.”

The look of concern returned to Clare’s face. “But it could be Karen. She’s very well developed for her age. We’ve got to check.” She stood up and frantically tried to push past Frost to get to the lift and the ward. He gently restrained her.

“It couldn’t possibly be Karen, Mrs. Dawson. The victim is at least thirty maybe even older…”

Dawson froze, staring at the detective in open-mouthed incredulity. “Am I hearing you correctly? You thought this woman, this thirty-year-old woman, was my daughter? My wife and I have been worried sick because you told us our daughter had been raped and beaten, and all the time… all the time it was a thirty-year-old woman!”

All Frost could do was shuffle his feet, mumble how sorry he was, and wish that Dawson would push off home so he could face his own humiliation in private.

With a sudden lunge, Dawson grabbed Frost by the lapels of his coat. “Sorry? Is that all you can say?” Then, with a look of contempt, he pushed him away and wiped his hands down the front of his coat. “You stupid, bloody incompetent fool, I’m not going to soil my hands on you.” He took his wife’s arm and led her out. At the main doors he paused. “Find my daughter, you bastard,” he said, and then they stepped out into the dark.